I’m OK and I’m not OK


I am okay.  I have the things I need – food, clothing, shelter.  Air conditioning…a fabric stash, hobbies and crafts.  I have everything I need – except an immune system.

And I am not okay.  I crave laughter and smiles – I yearn to see and feel the hugs of my kids and grandkids.  I need to watch a sunset, smell salt air, feel the sand between my toes.   Sit with my family around a campfire and listen to the familiar and usually wildly inappropriate banter.  I need to feel useful…

I am okay.  I have enough things to do.  I have a large enough, secure yard that no one gets within arm’s length unless I allow them.  I don’t have to worry about going to work as an essential employee, nor worry about the loss of a paycheck as I’ve not been able to work for awhile.  It’s status quo on that front and I know how lucky I am there.  I can still play in the dirt, go fishing, walk my dog, read, sew, putter.  Make face masks because it’s something I can do to help in a miniscule way against a mighty foe.

And I am not okay.  Social distancing has meant pretty much isolation.  And more time on my hands.  So I miss him.  Every. Damned. Day.  Here, in the house he loved.  Here.  Facing the rest of my life without him.  Here, without even the possibility of family visits.  Just here.  A helpless health care provider in a health care crisis.  The training, the passion, the desire to help…just sitting here.

I am okay.  I am choosing to limit my exposure to grim news and numbers.  Focusing on the positives where and when I can.  Doing research…trying to learn something, anything, every day.

I have decided that on the other side of this thing…I will either see my kids, grandkids, family and friends again.  Or I will see my husband, my mom, my grandma and my dog again.’

I am okay.  And I am not okay.


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3 responses to “I’m OK and I’m not OK

  1. My sister, Tar-buns, told me about your post. We were reminiscing about when you and I met in the parking lot of the Wendy’s outside Lansing, a neutral location chosen in case one or the other of us turned out to be an axe-murderer. You were as sweet and salty as your writing, and so was your dear husband.
    Ditto what Darla said about the hugs, sweetie.

  2. I read this post several days ago. Then wandered around in my own little isolated world while your words sunk in. I’m sending virtual hugs like Peg and Darla, but they feel woefully inadequate. Right now, that’s about all I can offer.

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